Anna looked back to the dais. The ceremony was ending. Jan took her hand to lead her away, applying just the slightest pressure as his fingers encircled hers. Either he knew not to speak or could not. For once she was thankful for his silence. This was no place for tears.
Anna and Jan arrived back in Sochaczew late into the night. Jan had held her for much of the trip. When they did speak, it was of mundane going-on at the estate.
Marta received them at the front door, her face tearstained, her blue eyes lifeless.
“What is it, Marta?” Anna asked.
The servant’s lower lip trembled as she tried to maintain her composure. “It’s mother, madame. She’s—she’s dead.” Marta’s grief betrayed her now and she shook as she tried to hold back sobs.
Anna took the middle-aged woman into her arms and held her. Unexpected heartache was heavy, indeed.
“Where is she, Marta?” Jan asked. “You sent for the doctor?”
“We took the liberty, my lord. But by the time he got here she was gone. She’s in our quarters. Apoplexy, he called it.”
“Apoplexy?” Jan said. “Heart seizures can be quick, indeed.”
Marta withdrew from Anna’s embrace, embarrassed but thankful.
“No one had a bigger heart,” Anna said. “No one.”
Servant or not, Lutisha was waked in the Stelnicki reception room for the prescribed three days and nights. Her family and friends maintained visitation around the clock. Anna chose the latest shift, sitting—often alone—near the open pine coffin from midnight until dawn.
Lutisha had been more than a valued servant. She had been a maternal figure and a beloved friend to Anna.
Years before many thought Anna would not survive the violent attack at the pond. But Lutisha had stood by her, giving her hope and encouragement, single-handedly nursing her back from the dead. She had insisted that she eat, force-feeding her when necessary. She stayed by Anna’s bedside, keeping her well covered against what she called the vapors of the night.
And so now it was Anna’s turn to sit with her through the night. A childhood prayer came back to her:
Angel of God, guardian of mine,
Stand by my side all of the time,
Morning, evening, day and night,
Be with me always to keep me right!
She continued to think about the past. When Anna had gone to the Groński estate at Halicz after the deaths of her parents, Lutisha had welcomed her with her large smile and her sincere concern. Anna remembered, too, how the King’s Guard had come into the Praga town house searching for incriminating writings of Zofia—and how it was Lutisha who managed to find Zofia’s wicked writings and secrete them in her skirts. She saved Zofia and perhaps the whole household that day.
Lutisha had served as midwife to Anna for all three of her deliveries. Anna had not given up thoughts of having another child—but what would she do without her Lutisha to bring it into the world? Anna smiled to herself now: Who would tie the red string around the little one’s wrist as a protection against the evil eye?
Was it God who granted royalty to a few, leaving the life of the peasantry to so many more? Or was it mere chance? Anna didn’t know, but she did know that Lutisha lived her life within its confines to the fullest, demonstrating more love, dignity, and loyalty than most titled people Anna knew.
Anna was thankful that during much of those three long, long nights, she was able to shake free of her sadness and morbid thoughts about sending her sons to war. Even in death Lutisha continued to serve. But there were times, too, when she thought how Lutisha, nearing eighty, had lived a full life, a life that—like the seasons—was a circle that had come to its completion.
Death was something Anna had feared since her parents and infant brother died years before, one so close upon the other. As the years went on, however, she came to realize that the darkness of death that shadowed her served a purpose, for it was such a perfect foil to the brilliance and joy of life and living. It was a reminder to live and to put aside fear.
Her thoughts, however, eventually came back to her sons, and to the sons of so many others, all soldiers now and in the sweet bloom of youth. So many of them would not live to see the circle of life move to a natural end.
29
June 1812
“My God!” Paweł exclaimed. “Tadeusz, you are the mirror image of your father!” The words were no sooner out of his mouth than he recognized the gravity of his blunder. If he thought for a moment that his insensitivity would somehow slip by unnoticed, one look at Jan Michał—with his Groński features and darker hair and complexion—told him otherwise. Michał’s face was reddening with a painful embarrassment. The brown eyes were at once hurt and indignant. Tadeusz seemed oblivious to his step-brother’s reaction. “That’s what everyone says, isn’t it, Michał?”
“Yes,” his brother said, trying to put a good face on it. “And it’s no compliment for Papa.”
“And you, Michał, have Jan’s ability to make quick quips,” Paweł said, hoping to assuage the hurt. He was quick to change the topic. “Ordinarily you would be meeting with your billeting officer, but in your case, I’ll be showing you to your quarters and then around Poznań.”
“Excellent!” Michał said. “Say, you were expecting us?”
“Yes, your father wrote, telling me to keep a lookout.”
“And the emperor?” Tadeusz pressed. “You’ll introduce us?”
Paweł laughed. “He’s not here yet.”
“But when he does arrive?” Michał asked. “We can meet him?”
“No promises, gentlemen. Is everyone in the Young Guard so enamored with Napoléon?’
Both boys nodded. “He’s a strategist like none before him,” Michał said.
“The others would kill to meet him,” Tadeusz added.
“And no doubt they’ll probably have to do so,” Paweł said. “Now let’s get your gear to our quarters.”
“Our quarters?” Tadeusz asked. “Are you nearby?”
“Closer than you think. I’m one of the Old Guard assigned to cadre a company of Young Guard.”
“Our company?” Tadeusz asked.
Paweł nodded.
“We weren’t expecting a babysitter,” Tadeusz muttered.
Michał’s brow lifted in mock petulance. “I suspect our father had something to do with this.” He seemed less offended than did his brother.
“He merely wrote to say you were coming, as I mentioned,” Paweł said. “The rest was my idea, I admit.—Don’t worry. In the company of others you will address me as Major Potecki—and I’ll stay out of your way as much as possible. Now, just deny that you’re hungry!”
The boys could not, and as they made their way to their quarters, they fell to complaining about the day’s long ride. Over supper, Paweł regaled them with his tale of 48 hours in the saddle during the Spanish campaign. When he was gotten down off his horse, he couldn’t walk, and his feet were so swollen his boots had to be cut off. A fever kept him on the sidelines for two weeks. Paweł thought that the boys—or rather, young men—might as well know from the start what they were in for.
In turn, they told him of their dream of becoming lancers.
“Don’t rush it,” he told them. “You’ll need decent cavalry service first.”
Napoléon arrived the next day to much fanfare. Jan Michał and Tadeusz received no special audience but did get a close-up look when the emperor reviewed the Polish troops, complimenting Prince Poniatowski for all to hear.
For many, the condescending attitude of the emperor contrasted poorly with the natural gentility of the Polish prince. Nonetheless, the Stelnicki brothers were duly impressed.
A few days later, Paweł called his company of Young Guard to horse and they set off for Wilno as part of a much larger force, with Torun as a stopover. The ground was level, so the horses were not overly taxed. They were walked the first hour, then given a drink and short rest, whereupon they were made to keep to a lively
canter for two hours, and as this process was repeated, the horses managed to maintain strength and endurance.
Paweł got to know the two special charges in his assigned company. While both boys were passionately patriotic, Jan Michał was the more thoughtful and practical. He was a bit insecure and consequently appreciative of his superiors’ approval. Tadeusz was surer of himself, perhaps because he had always the protective wing of an older brother. He was the better spoken and smarter of the two, but he was intensely emotional and possessed an impulsiveness about him that kept Paweł on guard.
Their school had pumped a love of war into their veins, it seemed, but before they tasted their first skirmish with an enemy they were to be subjected to the hardships of a forced march. These hardships were multiplied exponentially by the size of Napoléon’s Grande Armée. Whereas the little emperor had been adroit at managing forces of 100,000, a force of 650,000 challenged him in ways he could not have counted on. The roads were clogged with Wurttemburgers, Badeners, Bavarians, Italians, Poles, and French—all under his aegis. When the June heat became unbearable and rations dwindled, many of these soldiers took it upon themselves to go foraging—and plundering. Napoléon and his generals turned blind eyes to inappropriate behavior. As the days went by, morale dropped and desertions became common. Typhus, dyptheria, and dysentery claimed thousands.
The Young Guard marched to the front of Paweł, and as the long days passed, stragglers fell to the side here and there, their prone bodies interspersed among the dead horses. It was all Paweł could do to keep track of his own company.
On 21 June, as confrontation grew near, Napoléon addressed the forty thousand Polish troops: “Soldiers, the Second Polish War has begun. The first one ended at Friedland. At Tilsit Russia swore eternal alliance to France and war on England. Today she breaks her oath. Destiny must run its course. We are still the soldiers of Austerlitz. What a triumph that was! Let us march beyond the River Niemen and carry the war into her territory. This Second Polish War will be as glorious for our French armies as was the first one. Our victory this time will guarantee peace for at least fifty years!”
While Paweł could not help but notice he had made no mention of independence for Poland, Jan Michał, Tadeusz, and the entire Young Guard burned like human flames for the cause of the little Corsican. “Vive l’Empereur!” they cried until their voices were worn threadbare.
On the next day, the Grande Armeé, the marching babel of tongues, came upon the River Nieman, and everyone’s heart beat faster, for to cross it meant invading Russian territory. They made camp. The emperor drew up to the front on his gray horse and with his field-telescope surveyed the high and fast-flowing river. He—and the cheering men—seemed to have forgotten that in the early morning a rabbit had run between the hooves of that very horse, causing it to throw the Emperor of France. Paweł could not help but wonder if it was a bad omen. To his mind an invasion of Russia should have been initiated much earlier in the year. The seasons turned like a well-oiled wheel—quickly—and Russian winters were deadly. Best not to be there when the snows came to the steppes.
Napoléon, normally superstitious and watchful of omens, seemed not to take the episode of the hare to heart. He immediately put General Elbe’s engineers to work creating three pontoon bridges on the Niemen, for the wooden bridges had been burnt by the Russians. But impatience must have consumed him, just as it did his men, because he sent an urgent request to the Poles to find a place to ford the Wilia, a tributary of the Niemen. Paweł’s company was one of several to immediately mount and begin the search. No sooner had some of the Young Guard reached the river’s edge than they let out a great whooping sound, so overcome were they with the thought of being the first forces on Russian ground. Later some claimed to have seen on the other side Cossacks who taunted them, causing them to toss caution aside.
While the river’s surface appeared calm, the current was treacherous. Paweł noticed a nearly submerged tree branch shooting down the river as if it had been shot from a cannon. Then, to his horror, he sighted a number of the cavalry direct their horses head-on into deceivingly swift waters. He immediately rode to the front of his company, waving and ordering them to halt. “Not safe!” he called. “It’s not safe!” His men, deflated at being held back as others forged ahead, drew up around him, disappointment stinging their faces. Paweł saw Jan Michał now. “Tadeusz—where is he, Michał?”
Jan Michał pointed. Tadeusz was maneuvering his horse among a group who were testing the water. A few were actually taking the plunge, crying out excitedly, “Vive l’Emperor!” Tadeusz seemed only moments away from doing the same. Already Paweł could see that many who had gone into the river were in serious trouble. The bottom dropped away from under them, and the rapidly moving water was tearing them from their horses.
Paweł had to make a split-second decision: he must either go for Tadek himself or send Michał. He knew that if he went himself, some of his Young Guard would allow the emotion of the moment to overrule discipline, and they too would attempt the river.
He turned to Jan Michał. “Go get him, Michał! Bring him back at once! Tell him he’s under orders! He’s to come back or be sent home in disgrace!”
Paweł watched helplessly as the scene before him became more and more horrific. Both men and horses were unable to withstand the force of the river. A number were swept away. And still he could hear among the boys’calls and screams the foolish cries of “Vive l’Empereur!”
His heart pounding, Paweł watched now as the pantomime played out between the Stelnicki brothers at the water’s edge. Tadeusz was resisting Michał’s command, the command of an older brother. He pulled his horse away and started into the water.
Michał’s horse followed—and for a moment Paweł feared he would have to tell Jan and Anna of the senseless loss of both their sons.
“Tadeusz!” he called out, his voice lost in the pandemonium. He fought back the urge to go after him himself. He could not afford losing others of his company.
And so he watched as the brothers’ horses moved into deeper water. Jan Michał attempted to grab the reins of Tadeusz’ horse, but his brother pulled away. He screamed at Tadeusz, spittle flying from his mouth, and pointed out to the middle of the river where a horse and rider were being swiftly swept away. This seemed to give Tadeusz pause, and in a moment both he and his brother turned their horses, just managing to get to shore amidst the confusion.
Ten of the overly zealous cadets and nearly twenty horses were lost that day.
Paweł turned to survey the hillock from which Napoléon had issued his request. He was nowhere to be seen. “Vive l’Empereur,” he muttered.
Late the next day, with the pontoon bridges in place, everyone made the crossing without incident. Napoléon gave over the horse he had been riding—named Friedland in honor of his magnificent victory there over Russia—in favor of a fresh mount named Moscow. The symbolism was not lost on the men. The march continued.
Despite a fortnight on the road in deplorable conditions, when the troops at last assembled on the heights above Wilno, the generals called them to arms. A palpable thrill ran through the Young Guards. Jan Michał and Tadeusz sat alert in their saddles, their faces all anticipation. They were to see action! But a light rain soon gave way to a deluge. Up from the rear—on a white horse this day—rode Napoléon. His riding coat was gray, as were the angry eyes under his trademark bicorne, the brim of which ran off rain like twin waterspouts. He cursed the weather as he tried to make out the city below through the gray screen of rain.
In a little while, word came through the ranks that the city was unprotected, and the troops moved down into the center of Lithuanian culture, coming across cooking fires and items hastily abandoned in the Russians’ haste to evacuate. There would be no battle this day.
Jan Michał and Tadeusz found that the houses to which the company was billeted were filthy and strewn with human waste.
Worse, Paweł sensed that the Russians we
re—like a spider—luring them across the great Eastern steppes and into the center of their web, a web of cold and ice and snow.
July 1812
Zofia was sitting lost in thought in Princess Charlotte Sic’s reception room when the maid came in, a befuddled look on her round face.
“Madame, the princess has another visitor.”
“Charlotte is too ill to see anyone today. Who is it?”
“I didn’t think to ask, madame. She seemed upset. Cryin’ she was.”
“Show her in here, then. I’ll speak with her.”
In a few minutes, a young blond woman appeared wearing a beautiful slate blue day dress and a handsome bonnet of dark navy. Zofia stood, her eyes widening. She immediately recognized that the ensemble was from Paris, and recently so. Under the bonnet, the young woman’s face possessed a perfect ivory and rose complexion, marred, however, by the tracks of tears. “I am so sorry to barge in like this.” Several steps into the room, the woman fixed her eyes fixed on Zofia, and she abruptly halted. “Oh!” she said, her eyes then traveling about the room.
Only now, when the surprised and helpless expression of a schoolgirl flashed across the woman’s face, did Zofia recognize her. It had been several years. Zofia wondered whether the woman recognized her.
The woman blushed deeply. “I . . . I came to see Princess Sic.”
“I am afraid that Charlotte is ill and unable to receive today.”
A long awkward moment ensued. The woman looked like a sparrow about to take flight. Choosing to stay for the moment, she forced a little smile and gave a curtsey. “I am Lady Maria Walewska.”
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